


The Minstrel Boy (To The War Is Gone)

by mezirene



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, M/M, OFC - Freeform, OMC - Freeform, Trans Geralt, Trans Jaskier, but also eventually love each other, but there will be pain, by which i mean so what that the bard dies in the song, dom bottom jaskier, don't read into the title, early-c20 era alternate history war with nilfgaard, geralt is coping with being in command, heavy au, i will update inconsistently, its a war anything can happen, maybe im bluffing, maybe they switch, sub top geralt, two men can hate each other and scissor, unsure what pain exactly i will inflict on them, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:14:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28372221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mezirene/pseuds/mezirene
Summary: In an alternate history, the war against Nilfgaard is fought with magic and guns; with witchers and soldiers; but still with hate, and still with fear. Jaskier, newly conscripted and out of his depth, immediately makes an enemy of his commanding officer, Captain Rivia. But past this, the looming threat of the woods beyond the border which these soldiers guard haunts their days and nights. Will they ever leave this place? Will they ever push forward into the unknown? Or is this stretch of land, forgotten by the gods, where each soldier will meet their otherworldly fate?And, most importantly, will Geralt and Jaskier make out*?(*Yes.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Kudos: 11





	The Minstrel Boy (To The War Is Gone)

**Author's Note:**

> The minstrel boy to the war is gone  
> In the ranks of death you'll find him  
> His father's sword he hath girded on  
> And his wild harp slung behind him  
> \- Thomas Moore, The Minstrel Boy

They just have to hold the line. This is the mantra the soldiers on the mountain ridge live by. Hold the line. As dawn lifts her head and the second shift leave their posts and traipse back towards the barracks, they - as always - are greeted by a single-file line of soldiers heading in the opposite direction, to take up their post. As each man passes his comrade, they exchange a silent look. The look says _hold the line_ . It says _wait for the order._ It says _maybe today_.

The problem is that “maybe” has lost its meaning - the problem is that they’ve been defending the ridge for months - the problem is that the troops are tired.

* * *

The train only took them part of the way there. At first, Jaskier had been attentive. He’d stared, unblinking, until his eyes desperately watered at the outline of a woman in a pink coat, waving them off. On the days when new troops got shipped out, the train station was packed with well-meaning civilians, cheering and throwing flowers to their brave men and women - their protectors.

Some of his fellow soldiers had family there - Jaskier noticed an Elvish ensign holding someone - a husband, perhaps? So tightly that when the whistle blew, he could hardly bear to part with him. As he stepped back into the carriage and shut the door, his eyes were glassy. The man whom he had been embracing had his hand outstretched, a word Jaskier couldn’t quite make out on his lips. The officer felt Jaskier’s gaze on him and turned, at which Jaskier looked hurriedly away. There were a thousand personal moments happening concurrently on this train - there was nowhere safe to look without intruding on something impossibly private.

So Jaskier looked out of the window to his left, to the family he didn’t have. And that’s when he noticed her - the woman in pink standing there, eyes searching along each window in much the same way as Jaskier’s. Trying to find someone not spoken for, someone who needed a goodbye. Her eyes met his, and she waved. Jaskier waved back. As the train started to pull away he felt a lump in his throat. Her waving grew more frantic. He couldn’t stop looking. This goodbye was the last tangible piece of home he had.

Eventually, the train station and its little dots of life passed the horizon. Jaskier turned his attention to the outskirts of the city - the suburban sprawl, buildings stretching ever outward even as they clung to each other. Each one relying on the other in this desperate link to bring them closer to the city’s pulse. Each home a circuit in a life-support machine that, for the first time in his life, Jaskier was retreating from.

He’d left before, of course. He had to, for a while. But he’d always felt the rhythm of the city pulsing in his bones until he found a new place with a new heartbeat. As the train pulled out past the last recesses of human life and towards fields and forests, however, he noticed that he felt… empty. Cut off. Out of touch. He couldn’t shake the sensation that he would never be coming back, that this was much more than a missing or an absence of home - that the city had let him go, untethered, in the knowledge that he would be pulled under.

It didn’t help that as the train moved further past the woodland and out to the eerie open plains, the chatter in the carriage subsided. The leaving cheers had provided many of Jaskier’s compatriots - at least briefly - something in the way of hope, but the bubbly and sick adrenaline-fuelled cheer soon gave way to dread. Jaskier felt it in the pit of his stomach, iron wrapped around his insides. He barely had to glance around to realise that almost everyone felt the same.

The plains were barren, which didn’t help matters - the beige stretched in all directions as far as Jaskier could see. It met the horizon with intent, like the field was trying to escape from itself - like approaching the place where ground met sky would elevate it in some way. It didn’t. The lifeless flatland filled Jaskier with a profound lack of hope and - at long last - he wrenched his eyes away and back towards the carriage.

The train had perhaps once been used to carry passengers of some status, but was now ripped apart and outfitted with the trappings of a military vehicle. The seats were wooden and uncomfortable, the racks above them carrying identical khaki packs. That was the first skill Jaskier had learned - how to discern his among the tens of his compatriots. He’d resorted to just keeping it by his feet, tucked under his legs - a way to protect the precious cargo inside. It was uncomfortable, but better than the thought of the (entirely non-regulation) instrument inside being crushed under five backpacks heavy with months of field rations.

The thought made him shudder for a moment. Months. He knew that there had been a prolonged struggle at the border with Nilfgaard already, but he couldn’t imagine it would take much longer. That’s what they were there for, right? Young, hungry, eager for victory.

Jaskier’s uneasy expression caught the attention of an elf opposite him - older, slightly, but the same rank.

‘Don’t worry, comrade,’ he said - the lilt in his tone was pleasant, and Jaskier found himself smiling.

‘Why,’ he joked, ‘cause it’s all going to be fine?’

‘No.’ Said the man gravely. ‘Because we are all going to do our best, and then whatever happens will happen. And we cannot do anything to change that.’

The smile on Jaskier’s face faltered and died almost as soon as it had appeared.

‘Nice outlook on life you’ve got there. Mind if I don’t take it up at all?’

‘Do as you wish.’ The elf said, and maybe - for a moment - there was a ghost of sympathy on his face.

* * *

Jaskier had apparently fallen asleep, because he sat up - startled - at the feeling of the train rumbling and then grinding to a halt underneath him. Gods, he felt _awful_ \- the hard train seat had dug into his back, one of his legs was numb, his mouth was dry. The Elvish guy was still sitting across from him, and he nodded when he saw Jaskier was awake. ‘I was just about to wake you.’

‘How long have I been asleep for?’ The elf shrugged.

‘I don’t know. I was meditating. Long enough for it to get dark.’ Jaskier glanced out of the window and, sure enough, there was nothing beyond the window but a pale reflection of his face, lit by the lamps inside the carriage. It had been morning when they set off, but it was only just spring, and the nights still came early and lingered late. He checked his watch; it was just gone five. They were meant to be arriving at the border at seven. The knowledge that they were getting closer gnawed at Jaskier in a way he found profoundly shameful. Not a few months ago he’d been thrilled at the knowledge he’d be serving his country in the fight against tyranny and oppression, and now that that fight was less than two hours away he found himself praying that time would stretch and keep him here in this cold train car for as long as possible.

It didn’t. Time’s a bastard, and has a way of relentlessly continuing, insistently consistent, at the moments you would like nothing more for it to stop. As soon as Jaskier had had the thought that he would be perfectly happy to call this rustbucket home if it meant he would never have to disembark, the doors clanked open and the carriage was met with a gust of colder air. His hands tightened automatically around the straps of his pack - basic training had taught him enough muscle memory to anticipate orders before they came, and-

‘Everybody _off_ !’ Came the hoarse shout of the Sergeant who was accompanying them, just as Jaskier stood. He allowed the crush of bodies to lead him towards the door, his own reluctant footfalls caught in the slow press towards the night air, towards the next leg of their journey. He tried looking around for the elf he’d spoken to earlier, but couldn’t see the man’s features amongst the sea of unfamiliar ones around him. Distracted as he was looking around for his companion, he hadn’t noticed that the train hadn’t actually arrived at a _station_ , and the expectation of a short step down to the platform was jolted rapidly from his mind as he took a confident stride forward as soon as there was space in front of him, and tripped out of the carriage onto half-frozen, muddy ground about a half-metre down from the train door.

The Sergeant standing over him didn’t seem impressed, but held a hand down to him all the same. Jaskier nodded his thanks, and the Sergeant clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Try to have a little more awareness than that when you’re pointing guns at Nilfgaard, son,’ he said, stony-faced, and Jaskier let out a half-hearted chuckle before realising it wasn’t a joke. He nodded again, mutely, and walked away from the train door; this time, into the back of someone standing in front of him. Gods above.

‘Sorry,’ he said, figuring his fellow recruits would be a little more forgiving than the Sergeant. The woman he’d walked into turned around - and that was when Jaskier noticed she wasn’t a new recruit at all. Her uniform was torn and muddy, and as she turned he noticed her face was windburnt, and there were deep grooves in her cheeks and chin from the straps of her helmet. She only paid attention to him long enough to look him up and down: his face - clean-shaven, his uniform - brand new, and his expression - apologetic and slightly concerned. She sighed.

‘You won’t last a week, kid.’ Before Jaskier had time to do anything more than an indignant stutter, she had pushed past him to board the now-empty train. Ah. He’d wandered to the wrong group - these were the soldiers being rotated off front-line duty, after months at the border.

He felt a shudder down his spine again at the realisation that that was his future. Walking back to the other recruits, Jaskier thought of the look in the soldier’s eyes. Even though she was speaking to him, she hadn’t entirely been looking at him - it was like she was looking into him, or through him, once her initial assessment of him was complete. Like there was something else she was looking for, something behind him. That, or she couldn’t bear to look at him.

‘Well, they’re a bundle of laughs,’ he grumbled to one of the recruits next to him.

‘Yeah. If I end up like that, mate, just shoot me. Look at ‘em. Dead behind the eyes.’ The man who spoke was human, taller than Jaskier, and with a certain softness to his voice that made his coarse tone more jarring.

‘Will do,’ Jaskier nodded, hoping the man didn’t actually mean it.

‘What’s your name, mate? Don’t think I’ve met you yet.’

‘Yeah, I was asleep most of the way here. I’m Pankratz. Most people call me Jaskier, but, you know, the surname thing.’ The man seemed faintly amused by Jaskier’s tendency to ramble.

‘Sure. I’m Gynvael.’ The man offered no further name, but gave Jaskier a friendly pat on the back. ‘See you around, Pankratz.’ With that, he turned away, towards the now-empty trucks parked up by the train, one of which was currently being loaded with supplies, which the recruits were being ushered onto. Most of them were already full, and Jaskier followed Gynvael to the last truck, which was rapidly filling up. Gynvael was just a little in front of him and closed the distance in a shorter time - he was pulled up and into the last empty space on the wooden benches that lined the edges of the truck.

‘Uhh,’ Jaskier said, more to mentally process that there was no space than to draw attention to his predicament, because almost nothing was going right today and he would rather be able to fix just one problem himself. The truck’s passengers shrugged at him almost unanimously, and Jaskier was contemplating how to squeeze himself in when one of the other Privates yelled ‘hey, Sergeant!’ _I don’t know you, but I hate you_ , Jaskier thought as he stared down whoever it was that had decided to announce this latest fuck-up to the officer who already thought he was an idiot. It was difficult to see in the half-light, but he was distracted soon enough by the sound of the Sergeant sighing. ‘No space? All right… you’ll have to go in with the supplies, m’afraid, Pankratz. You’ll find some space somewhere, I’m sure.’

Before Jaskier had time to protest, he was being pointed towards the supply truck, which was now loaded. ‘Got a passenger for you, Hurley,’ said the Sergeant, and the truck driver - a short woman with dark hair pulled back beneath a cap - grinned at Jaskier.

‘Fraid it’s me and the Lieutenants up here, Private - you’ll have to take your luck in the back. You’ll be reet, as long as you don’t fall asleep under one of the ration boxes.’

‘Thanks.’ Jaskier said flatly. Lieutenant Hurley gave him a long look.

‘Reckon it’ll do you some good, anyway. The fresh air.’

Jaskier was considering asking what she meant by that, but the Sergeant’s pointed clearing of his throat and glance back towards the waiting train was enough for his words to falter in his throat. Sighing deeply, he adjusted his pack on his shoulder, nodded at the Lieutenant, and walked round to the back of the truck. There was a space in the corner, right by the open end of the truck, and he nudged his bag on before hopping on behind it. The Sergeant slapped the side of the truck, the sound of his open palm on the metal frame unnervingly loud now that the chatter of the recruits had subsided. The truck engine roared to life, the stones crunched under its tyres, and slowly, they began to move. Jaskier found himself doing the same thing he had that morning - looking up and down the windows of the train for a tether. It was all he could see, and all he could focus on - the harshness of the lighting from inside the carriage made the darkness around it impossible to perceive.

There she was - the woman he’d run into earlier. Her face rested against the window, and her eyes - again - seemed focused on something impossibly far away. Jaskier stared at her all the same, not because he found any particular comfort in her, but because the notion seized him as the truck began to pull away that he needed someone whose life he had touched - if she was right - someone he was briefly relevant to, not to mourn him if he died, but just so he knew that he was retreating away from something, and not just moving from one type of nothing to another.

She looked up at him as the truck picked up speed.

Jaskier swallowed.

She lifted a hand and waved, then turned away.

Jaskier’s hands found the wooden half-door at the back of the truck to give him something to steady himself on as he leaned over and threw up in the dirt. He hadn’t eaten in hours, and his throat burned - as did his face, at the realisation he hadn’t even arrived at The War yet and he was already puking in fear. Coughing at the acrid taste in his mouth, Jaskier gulped in lungful after lungful of cold night air. He remembered what Lieutenant Hurley had said.

Wow. That obvious, huh?

He stayed leaning out the back of the truck for a while longer, partly out of concern and partly because after hours of being cooped up on the train, it was nice to feel the breeze on his face. Daring a glance round his shoulder, he briefly caught the Lieutenant’s eye in her rearview. She gave him a thumbs-up, which he returned sarcastically. Can you sarcastically thumbs-up? Whatever. He just had.

Before long, though, Jaskier had retreated back to the relative shelter of the truck - the pulled-taut olive green canvas stretched over the truck’s frame did almost nothing to protect him from the cold, but he could at least trick his brain into thinking it did. Pulling his collar up over his ears and shoving his hands in his pockets, Jaskier tried to just sit there and ignore the cold, but it didn’t do much. After a good five minutes sitting there counting his breaths, Jaskier decided he would rather die than sit here on his own with nothing to do, and reached down to unclip the straps keeping his pack closed.

Fingers still sensate but a little stiff, he reached past the boxes of rations and rolled-up spare kit until his hand closed around the solid wood of his harp. With a little resistance, it came free from whatever it was caught on, and Jaskier pulled it out of his bag. His teacher had always called it a harp, but it most closely resembled a lyre - the frame was light polished wood with a milky-white and somewhat iridescent bone inlay. It fit perfectly in his hand, and he settled it in the crook of his arm. He hesitantly plucked one of the strings. Over the rush of the wind outside, the sound didn’t carry, and Jaskier relaxed a little. Very out-of-tune after being stuck in his bag for the better part of a day, though. He tweaked the pegs a little and, happy with the sound, began to pick a melody that was simple but peaceful. One of his favourites, that he knew from muscle memory alone by now.

After a couple of bars, he lifted his voice to join the notes drifting up into the wind.

‘And come tell me Sean O’Farrell, tell me why you hurry so

Hush a bhuachaill, hush and listen and his cheeks were all aglow,

I bear orders from the captain, get you ready quick and soon,

For the pikes must be together at the rising of the moon…’

Sure enough, the moon was out now - it hung, bright and half-waxed, shining down and illuminating the dirt track behind the truck. As Jaskier played, the knot in his stomach lessened. There were brief stretches of lyrics where he entirely forgot where he was going, but he would inevitably remember, and the rapid tightening of his chest that resulted was usually enough to make his fingers fumble on the chords he’d played thousands of times before.

Nevertheless, Jaskier continued to play. This was his life, for the foreseeable future. He had to get used to it sooner or later.


End file.
